


partners.

by AquaWolfGirl



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: AU, F/M, Modern AU, secret agent AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2018-05-12 04:31:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5652577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquaWolfGirl/pseuds/AquaWolfGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If she had been told a year ago that she would have a partner in this line of business, she wouldn’t have hesitated in putting a bullet through the speaker’s forehead. The idea was absolutely absurd. She worked better alone, with the exception of the occasional voice in her ear telling her which doors were locked and which hallways to run down. Having a partner was an unnecessary attachment she couldn’t bring herself to allow. Not because she liked solitude, or a lonely life, but because of their own protection. </p><p>“Can I shoot him this time? Please?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really like this AU, for some reason. I might continue with it, little one shots of a day in the life of Agent Ren and Agent Kenobi, if you guys like it.

If she had been told a year ago that she would have a partner in this line of business, she wouldn’t have hesitated in putting a bullet through the speaker’s forehead. The idea was absolutely absurd. She worked better alone, with the exception of the occasional voice in her ear telling her which doors were locked and which hallways to run down. Having a partner was an unnecessary attachment she couldn’t bring herself to allow. Not because she liked solitude, or a lonely life, but because of their own protection. 

“Can I shoot him this time? Please?” 

She disguises her annoyed face with a winning smile, making a quick excuse to the diplomat currently chatting her ear off that she needed to refill the half-empty champagne glass in her hand. “No, you may not,” she mutters to her earpiece as soon as she’s a few feet away.

“But you shot him last time.” 

Rey resists the urge to groan as she downs her champagne and leaves the empty glass on a passing silver tray. “Because I’m the better sharp shooter.”

“Exactly, and this is close range.” 

She scans the room for her partner, looking for his long black hair and almost jolting when she feels a warm hand rest at the center of her bare back. He snorts at her jump, standing beside her and offering her a new glass of champagne. She takes it gratefully, taking a sip as he stands beside her and scans the room. She can feel the subtle shape of his gun against her back as he presses close to her, playing the part of a doting lover in the way he holds her near.

“He’s not in the room,” he mutters, low enough for her to hear. “He slipped out three minutes ago.” 

“And you didn’t tell me because?!” she hisses through her teeth as she gives him what she hopes is a convincing, loving smile. 

“Because you seemed to be enjoying yourself with Mr. Bad Hairpiece,” he replies, and smirks. She resists the urge to slap the expression right off of his irritatingly long face and instead looks towards the exits of the room. She turns as she feels his long fingers trail along the delicate skin of her lower back again, curling towards him. He bends, pressing his ear to her lips, to the rest of the world whispering sweet nothings in her ear. But instead of ‘darling’ and ‘sweetheart’, she hears the words ‘balcony’ and ‘cameras disabled’. 

Ben stands beside her, leading her towards doors keeping them from their target. “This way,” he mutters under his breath, hand on the small of her back, to anyone else the dominating presence. It’s not hard for him to play the part with his 6′3 frame and broad shoulders, especially when she’s a mere 5′7 and relatively small. But anyone who truly knew the couple knew that she was the dominating one, always one step ahead of him.

They’re close, so close, when a man steps up to them. Rey’s suspicious immediately, Ben even more so. He looks like an absolute tosser, red hair coiffed perfectly and not a single stitch out of place on his black tuxedo. His smile is close to serpentine, and his skin looks like it hasn’t seen sun in centuries. She casts a quick look up to Ben, who looks just as uncomfortable as she feels.

“Hello,” the man says, and Rey can feel the way Ben tightens his grip on her waist. She uses the folds of her gown to disguise the way her Louboutin heel digs into the toe of his Oxford and is rewarded with a slightly lighter grip. She smiles pleasantly, replying with a sweet, “Hello,” of her own before stabbing Ben with her heel again when he remains silent. His greeting is less of a greeting than a grunt, and she resists the urge to glare at him in favor of playing her part. 

The redheaded man looks amused at their interaction. “I was wondering if the lovely lady would care to dance?” He holds out a thin, pale hand, and Rey smiles politely.

“I’m -”

“Overjoyed to accept,” Ben tells her, and she turns to stare at him in horror as he almost forcefully pushes her towards the other man. She practically stumbles, only saved by her honed reflexes, and glares openly at him as he smiles politely back at the other man, giving a little mock bow before walking off towards the balcony. 

She’s being led to the dancefloor by the other man when she hears his voice in her earpiece. “I get to shoot him after all, since you’re so distracted.”

Rey waits until the redheaded man is just out of earshot before hissing, “You ass!”

“It’s my turn anyway,” Ben taunts before the line goes silent. She can hear the music start up, and smiles politely as she steps towards the other man. He places his hand on the small of her back, and she almost gives a little shiver. His hand is nothing like Ben’s. Ben’s is large and covers much of her lower back without much issue. This man’s hands are smaller, his fingers not quite so long, and so so much colder. It feels awful. 

He’s slightly shorter than Ben, as well, and she finds it a bit unnerving as they step apart and step back together to the music, her gown brushing the floor beneath them in soft ‘swish’s. She moves as fluidly as she can without her usual partner, used to large feet and almost awkward movements. The man she’s dancing with is undoubtedly an excellent dancer, and she never stumbles once. She almost misses Ben occasionally stepping on her toes and recovering like it never happened.

There’s a murmur and a crackle in her earpiece, and she fakes a smile as she hears the mark go down. There’s no gunshot, nothing except for a choked sound and the thud of a body hitting the floor.

“Mission complete.” 

Ben sounds almost mechanical, and she can hear the soft rustling and moving of a body being hidden for discovery later. The music swells, and she’s spun by the other man before being pulled a few inches closer than she had been to him before. She tries to pull back to a polite distance, but he keeps her close. She’s uncomfortable with the intimacy the other man seems to want, but he’s stronger than his paper-pale skin and frame suggest, keeping her close.

“Is he your partner?” the redheaded man asks, tilting his head and smirking like the thought infinitely amuses him. She feels herself a bit sick to her stomach at the sight of it, and gives her most winning smile back. 

“Yes, he is,” she replies, and as the music swells again she’s spun out. She almost sighs of relief when she feels a larger, warmer hand take hers, and the small cold one leave her lower back. 

Ben’s grinning, pulling her close to him. “Forgive me,” he tells the other man. “I’d like to dance with my partner, if that’s all right. Thank you for taking care of her as I took advantage of some of the hor d'oeuvres.”

She hides a snort into Ben’s shoulder as the man stares at him like he’s a piece of trash, before nodding slightly and walking off with the speed of a man who’s just been harshly rejected. She turns and he pulls her into his arms, picking up right where she and the redheaded man left off, except he pulls her even closer. Now this, this she’s much more comfortable with. She sidles up to him, letting him pull her flush against him. However, just because she’s comfortable doesn’t mean she’s not pissed. She glares up at him as they sway and step. 

“I hate you,” she says, no shortage of venom in her voice as she purposefully steps on his toes. 

“I know,” he replies, grinning at her before bending down to kiss her deeply. She allows it, twining her arms around his neck and holding him to her as she bites at his lower lip hard enough to bleed - a punishment for taking the kill without her. He acts as the balm to her anger, all soothing licks and gentleness, his thumb stroking the soft skin at the back of her neck.

She reluctantly pulls out of the kiss when Skywalker’s voice crackles in their earpiece. “Ren, Kenobi, there’s a man heading towards the mark’s location. Get out of there.”

Rey allows his hand to twine with hers as they walk towards the door. His thumb strokes her hand as they get their coats, hands only separating as he helps her get hers on. By the time a very intoxicated party-goer finds the evidence-free body stuffed into the small powder room, they’re already halfway back to headquarters.

“Ben, get your hand off of my thigh or you will lose it.” 

He’s smirking in the driver’s seat, making no move to remove his hand from the inside of her thigh, his touch hot through the thin fabric of her gown. She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t make on her threat, instead looking out the window and smiling softly.

Partner indeed.


	2. rescue.

She’s no stranger to the taste of blood in her mouth. It’s disturbing, really, how familiar she is with it. But she knew that some blood would be spilled when she accepted the job, and with the position she accepted that some of it would be her own. She runs her tongue over her teeth and the broken skin of her cheeks, assessing the damage that the man's hard fist had done. She's grateful the skin's just torn, and that she hasn't lost a tooth. Yet. 

They’ve left her alone for hours now. 

The isolation is almost as bad as the torture itself. At least when they were torturing her she had some sort of entertainment, spitting her blood in their faces and smirking as they recoiled in disgust. She’d given up on being lady-like, civil and stubborn days ago. Now she lashed out, trying to keep her sanity as best as she can. She was proud when she managed to land a hit on one of them. It was his fault for getting too close to her face, anyway. She has the nasty bruise on her forehead to prove it, and he has the awful gash on his. She'd seen it sloppily butterfly-bandaged a few hours after, and had smirked. It would leave a scar, that's for sure.

She knows at least one of her ribs is cracked, if not broken, from their boots. She knows she has hefty bruises all over her face, and that her ankle is still healing from when she’d fallen two stories in her attempt to escape. That had been a joke and a half, really, and she regrets taking the easy way out instead of trying to sneak through their warehouse. Perhaps then she wouldn't be in this position. 

She rolls her head towards the door as it creaks open, the metal barrier heavy even for the thugs this crimelord called lackeys. Three of them slip in, and she offers them a stained smile. “Hello, boys.” Three this time. She could handle three. It was when there were five or six that she started to panic, chest heaving and breath quickening. 

She really should’ve expected the harsh slap to the face. She winces, letting her head hit the back of the torture chair she’s strapped to – a long board of a thing with restraints for her hands, thighs and ankles. Her skin’s chaffed from the unforgiving bands, even though she’d given up on struggling against them a few days ago. She couldn't bend to gnaw at the leather, and the bands were thick enough that even the idea of trying to stretch and break them was laughable.

“Who do you work for?” 

It’s perhaps one of the most ineloquent sounding sentences she’s heard in her life. It’s only because they’ve been asking for days now that she actually knows what he’s saying. She resists the urge to roll her eyes. Really, if they weren't getting it out of her when they kicked her solidly in the chest, they're not getting it now.

She just smiles weakly and shakes her head. “I told you – myself,” she insists, and it’s not a lie. She does work for herself. She just happens to be helping the Force Secret Service, it’s not like she’s a permanent fixture there. 

Nobody’s permanent in this service. 

The resulting fingers around her throat are downright bruising, and she gasps for air against the meat of his hand. They hadn't tried this before. Usually it was punches and kicks and hissed insults. She'd been called a whore, a bitch, a cunt, and several others over the course of a few days. Some not even in English. She wants to yelp as she's tugged forward, but the sound is caught in her constricted throat. 

“Tell.”

She can barely make a sound that isn’t choking, but she manages to shake her head just the slightest bit. She wouldn't tell them. She'd eagerly die before they got that information.

The fingers tighten and she starts to feel lightheaded, black spots dancing around her vision as she struggles for oxygen. She’s just on the edge of consciousness when there’s a loud ‘bang’ from the front of the room, the floor and walls shaking around them. She hears another bang, not quite as earth-shattering as the first, but close. 

And then she feels the fingers slacken. 

She hears two more 'bang's, and regains vision just in time to see her partner stepping over the bodies, stride long and confident. Ben kicks the one who’d strangled her in the head for good measure, before looking up at her. She wants to laugh and cry at the same time as he smiles sheepishly at her. The sound that comes out of her throat isn't exactly pretty, a half-squeak-half-sigh kind of thing, but it's a sound nonetheless.

“Sorry I took so long,” he apologizes as he makes his way towards her. She can see the bulk of his bulletproof vest under his shirt, the multitude of weaponry on his person. The door is literally blown up behind him, the wall surrounding it having separated from the metal. She offers him a tired smile as he stands in front of her, his beautiful self just inches away. 

“At least you came,” she offers, resisting the urge to shrug in favor of not angering her injuries into hurting more than they already are.

His soft touch to her cheek is welcome after days of being slapped and hit and beaten. She leans into his hand, closing her eyes and sighing at the warmth. 

"I came," he replies, smiling and leaning in to kiss her. It's hungry and possessive and it makes her already sore jaw ache even more, but she can't bring herself to hate it. She kisses him back as best as she can, bottom lip split open again at the effort. She tastes blood, no doubt hers, but they've exchanged bloody kisses enough times that she knows he doesn't give a damn. She audibly whimpers when he pulls back to pull a knife from his pocket. He kisses her collarbone before moving down to kneel in front of her. He saws through the leather bands with no small amount of effort and then she literally falling into his arms. He stands just in time to catch her. She sighs as his arms come around her, hugging her close to him. 

“Careful, ankle and ribs,” she warns, but she doesn’t really care at this point because he’s here and he’s saved her and he’s so alive. She missed the scent of his skin, the slight smell of his cologne and his sweat and just him. 

“And everything else, it seems, too.” His fingers move along the bruises starting to form on her neck, the bruises already dark on her jaw and face. “… somehow you’re still beautiful, even when you've been beat to absolute shit. And trust me, you look like you've been beat to shit, too.” 

She laughs then, and it’s painful to do so, but she doesn’t regret it one little bit. She leans against him heavily, trying not to put weight on her throbbing ankle.

“Can you walk?” he asks, already bending to pick her up.

“Doubt it.” 

He scoops her up, then, bridal style. She accepts it and curls into him, resting her head on his shoulder. She was right about the bulletproof vest, and although she knows it's necessary, she finds herself wishing it gone. She wants to feel the warmth of his skin, the muscle of his shoulder - not some hard, unforgiving thing. 

“Luke?” she questions, barely slurred as she allows herself to finally, finally relax into her partner.

“Is back at headquarters. Han and Chewie are giving them hell downstairs.” 

She looks up at him in surprise. “Han’s here?” 

“Of course.” He starts towards the door, stepping over the men effortlessly.  “It was a full-out rescue mission.” 

“And a drug ring bust.” 

“That too, but I lead the rescue part of it.” 

She watches as they walk down corridors, and can hear Luke’s voice in Ben’s earpiece faintly instruction him which way to take. She closes her eyes, allowing herself to truly relax for the first time in days. His arms are strong around her, and she’s grateful that he came instead of Han or Chewie. She’d be ecstatic with any rescue, honestly, but she feels more comfortable curling into Ben. He's hers, after all. She can feel Ben's lips against her forehead for a moment, the quiet murmurs of his deep voice as he assures her that they'll be back to headquarters soon. 

She hears Han’s voice after a moment, eyes still closed. She’s tired, so tired, and not even Han, one of the best agents in the secret service, can pull her from this soft, warm place right now. 

“Got her,” Ben says, and she can feel his chest rumble as he speaks. 

“Got them,” Han replies. Chewie grunts in agreement, and she can’t help her sleepy smile at the sound. Ben tightens his grip on her. She feels the soft press of his lips to the top of her head and snuggles in more. She startles a bit when she feels something warm and heavy fall onto her, a jacket that smelled of leather and metal and man. Han. 

“This place is fucking freezing,” the senior agent mutters. “C’mon, let’s blow it.”

She doesn’t remember much else after that, her world fading into darkness soon after. 

-

She wakes to the sound of mechanical beeping, and allows herself a soft, relieved sigh. She knows this beeping. It means she’s in the medical wing, back at headquarters. And if she’s here, then Ben isn’t far. 

She hears shifting next to her, and then her hand is covered by a much larger, much warmer one. “Rey?” 

“Mhm.” She’s still waking up, still trying to figure out how her tongue and teeth and lips work again. She turns her head towards his voice, opening her eyes slowly. Her eyelashes feel like they’ve been glued together, but she manages to open her eyes wide enough to see him somewhat well.

He’s blurry at first, but she can tell he’s worried almost sick. His thumb moves along the skin of her wrist, soothing the sore skin. She can feel the slight tremble of his hand as he holds hers, and she gives him what she hopes is a soothing smile. 

“Hey.” It’s rough and groggy and she needs water, desperately, but it’s something at least. He reaches forward and grabs her hand like it’s his lifeline.

“I’m here,” she mumbles, trying to squeeze his hand back and failing miserably. She manages a twitch, but she can see his smile anyway. “And I need water.”

Despite how deadly he is out in the field, she’s immediately reminded of his innate awkwardness when he stumbles to get the Styrofoam cup by the bed. He almost spills it twice, his hands still shaking, and she has to reach up with her own bandaged hand to take the cup. He helps guide the straw between her lips and she sips gratefully, sighing when she’s sated. He takes the cup and puts it back on the table, returning to take her hand between the both of his again.

“I know,” he says. “I know you’re here. I was just-“

“Worried,” she fills in. “I know. But I’m fine.”

“I wouldn’t call three cracked ribs, two broken fingers, one severely sprained ankle and several skin lacerations – not to mention an absurd amount of bruises – fine.” 

She smirks at his flat tone, humming softly. “Three, huh?” 

“Three,” he assures her. 

“I’ve had worse,” she assures him right back. 

Her hand is raised to his mouth, and she watches as his full lips brush against her bruised knuckles. “I know.” 

She smiles softly, watching him with a warmth in her chest that she hasn’t felt in, well, days. She feels it in her cheeks too. “… how long have I been out?”

“Two days, simply for pain purposes. They didn’t want you in too much agony. I guess you'll be feeling it soon." He keeps his voice soft and quiet, almost reverent of her. His lips are still pressed to her hand, and so she feels his mouth moving and the breath slipping between his lips as he speaks.

“And how long am I here?” She loathes to think about how long they’ll keep her here. She’d had to spend a month, once, after a particularly nasty explosion. That wasn’t fun, even with Ben visiting to torment her every afternoon. Her favorite times were when he came in after training. He smelled entirely of sweat, t-shirt sticking to his upper body, and she found herself wanting to do things to him that couldn’t be accomplished with an IV in her arm. 

“Technically, two weeks.” 

She groans, loudly. His laugh follows soon after, and she resists the urge to smack him. 

“I said technically,” he says, leaning in. “… but I might’ve convinced them one week, and then one week of at-home bed rest with a dedicated nurse.” 

“A dedicated nurse,” she repeats, raising an eyebrow. 

“If you ask me to put on an outfit for you, I will tell them that I’ve changed my mind,” he warns with a smirk. 

“Ass,” she mutters, trying to pull her hand away from his. He holds tight, rubbing the skin that’s not covered by bandages. 

“They also said no extraneous activity for at least a month.” 

She whimpers. 

He stands a bit, leaning over and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. She closes her eyes, letting him kiss her on her forehead and her temples. He pays special attention to her cheeks, lovingly trying to give attention to every freckle she has there. She smiles when he kisses her nose, and tilts her head up to accept him when he finally kisses her lips. 

“I thought we wouldn’t get there in time,” he admits quietly, full lips moving against hers. “It took days. They must’ve been desperate for information, because they would’ve killed you otherwise.” She can feel the shuddering breaths he takes, and reaches her mostly-non-injured hand to cup his cheek. There are still bandages on covering her fingers, so she can’t run her fingers through his hair like she usually does to comfort him, but she manages to brush at his jaw. He leans into her fingers, pulling back to press kisses to the tips of them. 

“But you found me,” she tells him. “You found me, and carried me like a knight in shining armor, and I’m alive because of you. So stop being all angsty and kiss me, damn it.”

He chuckles, turning back to kiss her lips again. She pulls him down as best as she can, wanting to feel his body against hers. 

“Ribs,” he warns, words against her mouth. 

“Don’t care.”

“You will if I actually lay with you,” he promises before pulling back and smiling. 

She sighs softly, knowing he was right. He’s always been right. They’ve done this too many times to count. Han vaguely mentioned a betting pool at one point about who could land in the medical wing the most amount of times. It’s not that they’re not careful, it’s that this job sucks and they have the scars to prove it. 

He kisses her again, sweet and soft and slow. She’s sure she tastes stale and bloody, but she’s kissed him when he was in the same state, so she doesn’t worry too much. He tastes like Diet Coke and something bitter, and she realizes just how much she’s worried as she processes that the bitterness is actually alcohol. 

“You were really scared, weren’t you?” she mumbles. 

His hand slips down to cup her jaw, thumb stroking at her cheek. “Yes,” he admits, and she sighs softly. 

“I’ll be fine, you know that,” she mutters. She can already feel herself drifting off, the pain medicine dragging her back down into oblivion. “I’m always fine.”

“One day you might not be.” 

“Ben, if you don’t stop, I’m going to have to shoot you.” It’s an empty threat, they both know. But he smiles against her lips anyway. 

“You’re falling asleep,” he accuses, no small amount of laughter in his voice. “While I’m kissing you. How dare you."

“No ‘m not.” Well, all right, maybe she is. Just a bit. Her words are slurred. "Sorry."

She feels his lips on her forehead, his fingers in her hair. “Sleep, love. I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

“You fucking better.” She’s not entirely sure it comes out clearly, but he laughs all the same, and she lets herself surrender to sleep with her hand still clasped in his.


	3. Chapter 3.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cheesy? Yes. Overdone? Most definitely. Am I going to write it anyway? Abso-fucking-lutely.   
> Rey and Ben's 'How They Met' story.

“Kenobi, I’d like to introduce you to Ren.” 

She doesn’t like the look of him. He’s dressed in a suit and tie, all black and sleek. Like he’s trying. She doesn’t like the looking of trying, because trying is simply trying and not actually doing. 

“Pleasure to meet you,” he says, his voice deep and rich like dark chocolate, and she watches as he holds out his hand. She stares at his fingers, his hands bigger and paler than she’d expected. Then again, the man is huge. Of course his hands would be, too.

“Pleasure,” she says, not taking his hand as contempt drips from her lips. 

“Kenobi,” Luke says warningly, but she can also hear the mirth in his tone. 

“He’s not Finn,” Rey insists, looking back to Luke and glaring at him. 

“Finn’s decision to get married and live a civilian life was his to make, not ours, and you know that,” Luke tells her, and Rey huffs. 

She knows it was Finn’s decision. She was his best man at the wedding, holding the surprisingly calm corgi of his new husband, Poe. He’s happy, sickeningly so, she knows, in his little townhouse with his shiny new car and kisses when he gets home every night.

But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t miss him.

“I’m sure we’ll work well together,” Ren offers, and she turns to glare at him. His voice is too smooth, his hair too silky, smile too soft. 

“At least he’ll be good for honeypots,” Rey mutters to Luke as she walks forward, bumping Ren’s shoulder with hers as she passes. “Like we need more of those.” 

-

She gets the call at 1am, with her grilled cheese almost to perfection and her work phone ringing off the hook on the counter next to her.

“We need you to come in.” 

“Now?” she demands, looking at the clock and at her nearly done dinner. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

“It turns out our contact isn’t interested in men.”

Rey stops, her spatula under her grilled cheese before she’s sighing and reaching to turn the burner off. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“I’ll send you the name of the bar.” 

It’s a dirty, hole in the wall kind of place, with too loud music and the sounds of raucous laughter and the crack of billiard balls echoing over conversations. She has to fight the urge to tug her jean shorts down, the old pair from high school doing little to fully cover her as she walks inside and tries to look like she’s been here before. 

She sees him immediately and stares at the holes in his skinny jeans, the back of his black t-shirt, and the whiskey in his hand. She tunes out the whistles of some of the drunken men and heads right for the man Luke called her ‘partner’ that afternoon. 

“I wasted a perfectly good grilled cheese because of you,” she mutters under her breath, looking around at the bar and trying to see his mark.  
“Sorry,” Ren mumbles, and she hears something slide across the bar before she looks down and sees a stuffed pretzel offered to her. “Luke told me you might be hungry.” 

Well, at least Luke had the decency to warn him. She tears off a piece and tucks it between her lips, the cheese cool and a little chewy but satisfactory. “Where is he?” 

“She. Playing darts. We need her phone.”

It’s an easy job. The marks’ a little more than tipsy, and with some dancing and some clever hands, smoke-filled air and a darkened corner, she returns and slides the phone into Ren’s hand, leaning up to kiss his cheek as his hand finds her lower back protectively. 

“Three big guys to the left, the ones in the corner by the old Pac-man machine,” Ren mutters, and she fakes a smile as she curls into him, her hand finding his chest. His skin is warm beneath the thin cotton of his t-shirt, no doubt years old or made to feel like it. 

“How’s about we get outta here?” she asks, putting in the Southern drawl that she used earlier on their mark. 

“You sure I’m your type, sweetheart?” Ren purrs, and she hates the way she doesn’t mind the tone of his voice as his fingers slip beneath the tight cotton of her tank top. 

“Not many who aren’t,” she croons back, and his smirk is absolutely sinful as he goes to guide her out of the bar. Out of the corner of her eye she sees movement, and she leans into him, playing the part of tipsy as she laughs loudly and stumbles into him. 

“You got a gun?” she asks as discreetly as she can. “We’re being followed.” 

“Yes, and I got that,” Ren whispers. “I’d rather not pull it out right now, though. Gunshots on this active of a street? It's a call for the cops straight off the bat.”

"You don't know this area of the city that well, then," Rey retorts. "They're getting closer."

"I know, I'm thinking." 

“About what, where we'll get dinner after this?!” Rey hisses as she hears the footsteps getting closer. 

“No, that I’m sorry.” 

“For what?”

“This.” 

She doesn’t even know his real name. She doesn’t know where he came from, or what his training was, or what his qualifications are. She just knows he’s very forceful, and the brick wall against her bare back is very cold, and he’s a very, very good kisser. 

She can feel his knee between her legs, keeping her steady as he braces his hand against the wall beside her head. The other slips beneath her tank top, his palm hot against the skin of her waist. She throws in a throaty moan for added effect, hearing the footsteps stop, and then go back the other way, no doubt the men not really wanting to interrupt something so … affectionate. 

“I think they’re gone…” It’s muttered against his full lips, his nose just brushing hers as he goes to change angles. Any protest she’s about to offer dies on her tongue as he sweeps his across hers, warm and wet and God, how long has it been since she’s been kissed?

“Surveillance shows that the three men following you went back inside the bar.” 

She can hear the laughter in Luke’s voice, and pulls back with an almost violent-sounding ‘smack’ as she stares up at their newest agent. No doubt he transferred from somewhere, worked with one of their allies. He has some lines near his eyes, is maybe not as young as some of the other agents they have. But his smirk is sinful, and she feels her cheeks flush. 

“Copy that. We’re on our way back with the phone now,” Ren replies.

He pushes off of the wall, dusts his hand off on his jeans, and offers it to her. “You need a ride?” 

“That would be appreciated,” Rey mumbles, reaching back to tug her jean shorts back down over her ass cheeks. “I forgot how small these are.” 

“They worked for the part,” Ren replies. 

“Is your name really Ren?” she asks as he starts to walk towards the nearby parking garage. 

“Ben,” he explains.

“… only Luke,” Rey mutters as she shakes her head. 

“Actually, my mother came up with it,” Ben-Ren replies, and she looks at him incredulously. 

“Your mother knows what you do?” 

“Of course,” Ben-Ren says, sounding just as incredulous as she. “She’s the director.”

She stops so abruptly the toe of her ratty sneaker catches in a crack in the sidewalk, and much to her humiliation she goes sprawling. Within seconds there are big hands hauling her back up like she’s nothing, and she hisses as the air hits the scrapes on her knees and hands. “Fuck…”

“Better get you to medical,” Ben-Ren says, and she looks down to see blood starting to drip down her leg. “Need me to carry you?”

“No, I can walk just – ow, fucker, all right, I just need… gimme your hand or someth-no, Ben, stop!” 

\- 

“Don’t. Say. Anything.” 

Luke’s small, satisfied smile as he looks down at her scraped knees, wrapped in gauze as he holds his hands up. She can just barely see the edge of his prosthetic beneath his brown tweed suit. “I didn’t say anything, did I?” 

“You want to.”

“I just think it’s interesting how he insisted upon carrying you in here himself.”

“It’s painful to walk with scraped knees.”

“You’ve walked with a gunshot wound to your thigh, Rey.” His smile softens a little. “What did you think of him?”

She has no argument for that, but instead looks to the flowers that her new partner somehow managed to buy in the ten minutes that they were looking her over and cleaning up her scrapes. “… I guess he’ll be all right to work with.”


End file.
